


When A Good Time Turns Around

by Devilbaby



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Ben is just along for the ride whether he likes it or not, Klaus knows what Klaus likes, Masturbation, No incest we don't do that here, Other, unfortunately so does Ben
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2019-11-19 01:05:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18128936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devilbaby/pseuds/Devilbaby
Summary: It's just Klaus, his drugs, Reginald Hargreeve's chair...and Ben.





	When A Good Time Turns Around

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Devo's "Whip It" ~~because I am old~~.
> 
>  

Klaus closes his eyes and takes a shuddering breath as the first wave washes over him, raising goosebumps on his skin. 

_fuck yeah..._

He rolls his neck, the room swooping about him in a slow arc. He's in Reginald's study, that hallowed space Klaus was never allowed to be, in the chair no one but dear departed daddums had ever been allowed to sit in. He opens his eyes and the walls are moving, spinning lazy pirouettes as he watches, distantly fascinated. He's not even sure what he took and doesn't really care. He can't hear the voices of the dead right now, can't see their misshapen faces or feel their breath on his skin and that's all he wants in an evening. Sweet fucking oblivion, by whatever method he could get it.

He's wearing another one of Allison's skirts; some soft, slinky silk number he secretly thinks she bought for Luther- meaning she bought it to wear around him, obviously she hadn't bought it _for_ Luther because it was too small and also Spaceboy didn't have the figure for it (it wasn't even his color) but it was an amusing mental image anyway and holy shit he is _flying_. 

He runs his hands down the soft, cool folds of the skirt and wishes he'd thought to shave his legs first because he bets it would feel ah-mazing next to smooth skin. Well, something to remember for next time but who's he kidding? He never remembers anything when he's high. And he's always high. 

The second wave hits and he moans, digs his nails into his thigh just so he can _feel_ something, something other than the sandpaper scrape of addiction, or the crawling-ant sensation that alerted him to the presence of the dead. His whole body rolls and trembles, brain cartwheeling in his skull and he shudders, hot and cold like separate faucet taps running through his body. He's writhing now and doesn't care how he must look. Fucking possessed, probably. 

Well, to be fair he practically was. Always had been. But the spirits can't follow him here; not to this place. The Mecca of drugs was a sanctuary offered only to the living. He'd started worshiping at that particular alter for the same reason most people did; to cope with his demons. If his happened to be more literal than most, oh well. The same principle applied. 

He scratches black-painted fingernails up his chest and neck, into his hair. His scalp itches and he scrubs at it furiously, bits of dander trapping under his fingernails. He tugs at thick, corvine curls and his body is twelve different shades of confused so instead of hurting it feels kinda good and that's what people don't understand about the drugs, about the _high_. When your world was shit anything that turned pain into pleasure was a gift from God. 

Even if God was a sick son of a bitch.

He tugs on his hair again but it's not enough and soon he's touching himself - and that's another advantage of skirts, no buttons or flies getting in the way - running his hand over his cock as another moan breaks away from his throat.

Third wave and it's hitting him faster now, he's done enough drugs to know he's got about ten minutes before he peaks. He grips himself tightly, rocking his hips, trying to find a rhythm but his heart is fluttering like a crippled bird, pulse rabbit fast and even his fucking molars are vibrating, the frantic pulsing of blood being pushed through his body by a heart that was beating much too fast. 

 He's probably on the edge of heart failure and honestly? That was fine. This is how he would want to go, if he had a say in the matter. High as balls, jerking himself off in dear old dad's study because fuck Reginald Hargreeves, fuck his fancy room and fuck this chair in particular. 

He moves his hand faster. He's good and hard now, body finally figuring itself out enough to send blood to all the right places. His head is still swimming, brain buzzing static like a television set stuck between channels but by God his dick is working just fine. He pants as the pressure builds, working towards a truly excellent crescendo.

From over in the corner, Ben tries very hard to ignore his brother and focus on his book. "You know I have to watch this, right?"

**Author's Note:**

> So this had been sitting around in my drafts long enough it was about to get deleted so...yeah. Here it is. Not entirely happy with it so edits will probably happen at some point but I was sick of looking at it so up it goes.


End file.
